


Frail nights

by Fayet



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anti-Witcher Sentiments, Depiction of Inury, Geralt loves Eskel, Hurt/Comfort, I tried to write something soft and this is what happened, Lots of feelings barely any plot, M/M, Old Love, Sleeping Together, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft and sad, The Aftermath of Prejudice, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), not very graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26815687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fayet/pseuds/Fayet
Summary: On a cold winter night Eskel finally comes home to Kaer Morhen.It's very late at night and Geralt is still very drunk, but Eskel is obviously here and suddenly Geralt can breathe again. The heavy load that has been sitting on his mind is gone, slipping off and falling away just so.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 23
Kudos: 111





	Frail nights

The part of Geralt that always lies awake and listens registers the steps on the stones in the corridor outside his room long before they arrive in front of the door. It sorts through the collection of sounds it knows, the familiar and the hostile, analyses and comes to a quick and firm conclusion. His next decisions are based on that internal and entirely subconscious evaluation, an automatic process created by decades and decades of drill, experiences and mutagenes he cannot circumvent even if he tries.

It's because of this internal vigilantness that he's recognised his visitor even before he's awake, his body not coming from deep sleep into sudden and almost painful wakefulness but rising from unconsciousness to a sluggish sense of movement, blurred realisation. He does wake and rises from his bed, of course he does, but it's not with a start but rather a slow blinking, the copious amounts of White Gull still circling in his blood stream not yet purged from it, making his head spin just a little as he's pulled from sleep.

The room around him is almost dark, the dying embers of the fire in the large fireplace giving off their last light. The torn tapestries over the windows block out the moonlight, keeping everything in a soft gloom, sharp angles and the decay of Kaer Morhen around him softened into obscurity. The air smells of the remains of the fire, the cold outside - not sharp and cutting but mellow, a wetness that could be either rain or already soft snow - and Eskel, standing in the open door for a moment. He's a blur of red amongst the sea of black and grey shadows, none of the brutal crimson Geralt is so used to but a soft burgundy, deep like heavy and rich wine.

It's very late at night and Geralt is still very drunk, but Eskel is obviously here and suddenly Geralt can breathe again. The heavy load that has been sitting on his mind is gone, slipping off and falling away just so. The sudden lightness leaves him confused, standing next to his bed, slightly swaying on his feet. He sleeps naked when he's in Kaer Morhen in winter as long as possible, right up until it's too cold for it, a small pleasure he does not grant himself on the path. There's an animal simplicity in curling up like this, the furs in his bed trapping his body heat, a warm cave to crawl into at the end of the day to fall into unguarded oblivion.

So he's naked and Eskel is completely dressed in his full armour, all those layers of leather and metal and spikes, held together by ties and straps, thick breeches, heavy boots. His dagger is still on his belt but his swords are gone, probably deposited in his cold room, together with his saddle bags and heavy cloak. It is so late it's almost early, had already been late when Geralt finally went to bed after bickering with Lambert over a game of Gwent for the largest part of the night, drinking heavily, both pretending that they were not worried about Eskel's absence.

They'd cursed and swapped insults over goblets and goblets of Whilte Gull, and ignored that Eskel is barely ever late. It's Geralt who's routinely the last one into Kaer Morhen for winter, sometimes missing the right moment to travel to Kaedwen all together and getting stuck somewhere on the continent, embroiled in one of these conflicts that always seem to find him despite his best attempts to run from them whenever they appear over the horizon. His brothers have gotten used to it and yet will punch him and cuss him out when they meet next, pretending anger and veiling worry. It's a sad life they have been cursed to, always wondering, always expecting the worst.

It's what they'd done this night, he and Lambert, expecting the worst, not allowing themselves to actually say anything. Why talk about anything if their words are powerless? There are no spells or curses that could change the way of the world, nothing at their disposal to influence what is bound to happen anyway. Their insults are placeholders, like the way they lift their goblets and drink down the harsh alcohol, feel the burn in their throats that numbs the hurt in other places.

But there's Eskel, fresh off the path, stinking of horse and dried sweat, dirt stuck to his boots and wetness in his hair. There's a strange lack of monster blood about him but but he's disgusting and tired nevertheless, dark circles under his eyes, pale in the little light there is. The deep scars cut into the right side of his face seem darkened, the eternal snarl sitting on his lips raising them to show a fang, some blood in the corner of his sharp mouth. But his eyes flare, sparks in the darkness, a hungry glow that rests on Geralt and does not leave him again.

He saunters into the room as if he's been there for weeks, has just gone out for a midnight hunt and returned as scheduled. Geralt blinks himself into a more lucid state, and growls.

"You're fucking late."

His words are still slurred, voice raspy and stuck in his throat. Eskel huffs a little, comes closer, the door behind him securely shut without Geralt being able to tell when he did it. His mind has registered the familiarness, decided that there's no danger and promptly gone back to sleep again, leaving his body to stand there in the room a little helpless, a little too open for the wretched emotions he would deny having. It's the White Gull, the still capable part of him decides firmly. It's not his fault, he's just drunk. He frowns against the weak light coming off the fireplace and his brother.

"Got held up."

Eskel says it like he's explaining his delay to a wedding, like he's been a quarter of an hour too late at an agreed meeting point and not a month off. Geralt only shrugs in return, doesn't know what to say or how to say it. The stones under his bare feet are cold, and he looks down his pale legs briefly, wondering what to do. Eskel takes the moment to move closer, and Geralt realises he probably is expecting their usual greeting, the protocol they have followed for years.

So that is what they do. Eskel's hands find their spot on Geralt's biceps, wrap around it as far as they can - and they almost can, Eskel's hand being massive, his body the only one that can make Geralt look small in comparison - and pull him closer a bit. Still unsteady on his feet Geralt follows the motion forwards into the blur of colour Eskel is until their foreheads touch. His own chest expands and falls in perfect synch with Eskel's, and then Geralt blinks and Eskel's rough hands are on his face, brushing over cheekbones and temples until his long fingers can bury themselves in the silver white of his hair, pulling it out of the tie.

Letting his eyes fall close Geralt lets him do as he pleases, the cold hands on his skull a welcome feeling that seems to clear his mind a little. Eskel hums under his breath, the swell of his magic for a moment whispering across Geralt's skin. He inhales. Horse, leather, old blood, something warm and spicy. Eskel.

Returning the gesture Geralt reaches blindly and finds a firm grip around Eskel's neck, both of his hands wrapped around it, fingertips brushing the end of his unusually long hair. It's wet, heavy and dark. Geralt presses his fingertips into Eskel's skin, feeling the tension of the tendons and muscles. The journey is still in Eskel's body, a witcher ready to fight, all hard angles and sharpened metal. Compared to him Geralt feels shapeless, clumsy in his tiredness and unsteady balance. His feet are slowly getting cold and so are his fingertips, Eskel's wet hair against them cool with already melted ice crystals. Geralt keeps his eyes closed but can imagine them, the crystalline structures shining in translucent white against the coarse waves of Eskel's dark hair, perfect ornaments that clung to him like cheap jewels as he moved through the storm.

"Snow?"

Eskel nods ever so slightly, carefully, their foreheads still leant together. Geralt hears the answer coming from so close he thinks he can taste it.

"Six inches already on the ground."

So Eskel slipped into Kaer Morhen just in time, taking the very last opportunity. It explains why he arrived so late in the night, travelling through the darkness on a badly kept and dangerous trail towards Morhen Valley. They know the area very well, but so do the other things that hunt here, monsters that want to eat, to drink living blood to keep warm for another wind-lashed night.

"Come to bed."

Eskel nods once more, and again Geralt feels it against his forehead. Then the cool hands in his hair slide away, brush over his shoulders once, a hint of fingertips over his waist and lower back and then are gone and immediately missed. Eskel moves back and Geralt opens his eyes and shakes his head a little, feels the sway of his unbound hair falling around his face now that Eskel has pulled it into disarray. He's a little less stable on his feet without Eskel's hands, so he takes a step back and sits down on the bed, still heavy with disturbed sleep. Eskel undresses without any hurry and strangely angular movements, sets his boots and armour aside neatly, pushes down his breeches, strips himself of his shirt and undergarments. The smell of travel and unwashed clothing wafts over, and Geralt growls at it.

"Could've had a bath first."

Setting aside his breeches Eskel turns smoothly, magnificent in the half-darkness of the room, his body all heavy muscle and broad lines and yet slim, not properly fed. He hasn't eaten well in a while, which is unusual for Eskel who always was the one who could keep himself well-fed and well-clothed, unlike always ragged and half-starved Geralt.

"Tomorrow."

He straightens and stands, lets Geralt watch him for a moment, take inventory. And though he's tired Geralt stares openly, following the ritual, knowing Eskel has already looked him over, seen the new scars. It's the same every year, another scar, another story. This year has been easy for Geralt, with only a new ugly line over his right forearm and a long clean scar between his shoulder blades, an almost vertical tear that healed surprisingly well after Jaskier stitched it up in some lonely tavern along the road.

Eskel wasn't so lucky. He turns and Geralt can see the wounds on his right shoulder, right where the joint is, three angry dark red craters exploding into the slope of his muscles. Geralt blinks, and the old crimson blurs.

"What happened?"

For a moment Eskel looks as if he doesn't want to tell. He stands in front of the fire, now himself naked on the cool stones and takes a breath, and another one. Then he shrugs, the nonchalance so very clearly faked that Geralt wonders why he bothers to pretend at all.

"Crossbow bolts."

Geralt raises an uncoordinated eyebrow and Eskel turns, displaying his back. It takes Geralt half a step across the room and his hands are on Eskel's body, carefully tracing the edges of the wound. They have already healed a little, are maybe a month or two old, the skin still tight around them. Entrance and exit wounds match perfectly, the crossbow bolts having cut through Eskel's shoulder with speed and precision, tearing ligaments and bones, possibly hitting right through the joint. The clear outlines of the wounds mean Eskel wasn't in movement when it happened, must have stood still. There's only one explanation for that, and Geralt suddenly feels rage well up. It takes him two tries to swallow it down again, but Eskel feels it, seems to vibrate under Geralt's hands for a moment.

"Humans?"

Eskel nods, looking not at Geralt as he traces the wounds.

"Wrong time, wrong place."

Geralt snorts, feels the growl build in his chest.

"Fuck."

So this is why Eskel is so late, why he hasn't travelled earlier. A shot-through shoulder takes a long time to heal, a month or two until the arm can be moved properly again even with their strange healing speeds. A heavily wounded witcher can't work contracts, can't protect himself. Eskel has probably been hiding somewhere, trying to keep himself alive, waiting until he could travel again to return to Kaer Morhen. It explains the lack of monster blood on him, the absence of the usual smell of a strange creature's death that tends to sit on a working witcher like perfume.

Geralt's fingers leave the wounds, brush over the shoulder. He feels the urge to move it, see if Eskel has regained his full range of mobility, but his hands just slip over the muscle and press until Eskel hisses and moves away, turning towards the dying fire. It has nothing to do with the minimal pain Geralt's hands are causing. There's some sort of shame in these type of wounds, despite the fact that they all have them. The proof of how unwanted they really are can take different forms, from Lambert's knife wound that sits very close to his spine to the ugly web of scars the fire from the pyre has eaten into Geralt's left calf muscle many moons ago. Even Vesemir has wounds like these, somewhere on his old body, barely distinguishable anymore under the chaos of lines and furrows dug into his skin.

Until now Eskel had mostly been spared, maybe because he used to be handsome and still is charming. The scars on his face changed him and how the world could see him, and Geralt has known this moment would come, is glad it hadn't happened earlier. It was difficult for Eskel to adjust anyway, to go from being the handsome one to a face that can strike terror into the eyes of people passing by him on the street. It's a lesson that is different and yet similar enough to the one Geralt knows, who has never been anything but spat at, is too striking in his otherness to be overlooked. He was younger when he learnt to hide under hoods and in the shadows, when he realised that the world doesn't need him and would rather see him burnt to ashes, locked in a cage, kept in chains and maybe sold to the highest bidder. Eskel had known the hate, of course, but always managed to slip away on time, right until his luck ran out this year. And yet he'd been fortunate even now, getting away alive, three holes in his body but none in his skull or heart.

It's small mercies they have to be thankful for these days, and so Geralt lets his hands drop and Eskel turn away for a moment.

"Tell me."

Eskel shrugs, and then turns back, but only to yawn. In the darkness his eyes glow, dimmed embers leftover from a raging fire.

"Tomorrow. Too tired."

He won't talk tomorrow, either, but Geralt is as patient as a creature like him can be. The snowflakes that melted in Eskel's coarse hair must still be falling outside. They have all winter, and so he nods and pulls Eskel to bed with nothing but a glance. They fall into the sheets and furs still retaining Geralt's body heat from earlier, and it's a testament to how tired Eskel really is when he does nothing to take advantage of the fact that they are both together in one safe spot and naked. Instead he simply inhales deeply, hums contently before nestling closer and suddenly is asleep, tired and worn out from months of hiding somewhere, from travelling through the treacherous night with a wounded shoulder. His breath evens out and his heartbeat slows a little, background noise to Geralt's own spinning thoughts.

He is still tired and drowsy himself, but his mind won't stop, fuelled by the alcohol still in his system and Eskel so close, safe now but almost lost. Winter is long but will pass, month coming and going, days and weeks. They will sit together and sleep clinging to each other, calloused hands in each other's hair, and then they will part to move towards the inevitable. There is no other way and he hasn't learnt how to wish for one.

Lying on his back Geralt looks at the ceiling that should be somewhere hidden in the darkness and that his inhuman eyes can still trace clearly. He lies and listens, and then Eskel turns in his sleep, away from Geralt to lie on his good shoulder, curling up. His naked back curves a bit and Geralt can see the wounds up close, skin stretched tight, the fragmented shoulder blade only healed very roughly, still needing more time. Eskel's back looks different now that he's thinner than usual, vertebrae standing out, the line of his spine sunken in and clearly visible. Geralt brushes a hand down the curve of it, counting the exposed knobs of his bones and Eskel shivers under his touch but does not wake. There's the whisper of his magic at the contact and Geralt needs to blame the thing that lurches deep inside him on his own chaos twitching under the familiar call.

The coalesced shards of Eskel's shattered shoulder blade sit directly in his line of sight and Geralt knows pain, has a firm idea how much it must have hurt to feel the crossbow bolts explode through skin and tissue, the warm blood running, the long hours of healing alone somewhere hidden away, reduced to the snarling pain of a body mending itself slowly, hoping to be left alone in peace. And that doesn't include the prelude, the feeling of being captured, spat at, to be bound up and left to anticipate the pain, the chains around the wrists and the struggle against what cannot be changed anymore.

Out of nowhere he feels the completely pointless compulsion to cast Quen over Eskel, a golden shield that would keep him safe from the crossbow bolts and the stares, the words and the blades. Geralt's fingers tingle and he gently traces the sign onto Eskel's back, into the space between his shoulder blades, just the smallest movement, magic without purpose or power to it. The warm glow brightens the dark room for a heartbeat and then dies away uselessly, not even strong enough to make Eskel stir. His own chaos doesn't react, sits calmly inside him, so much stronger than anything Geralt could ever summon from the murky depth of himself.

They can't protect each other. Even if Geralt had more magic at his disposal, even if he'd trail Eskel's every step, stand on guard with his silver blade and watchful eyes. Eskel wouldn't want it, but it also would betray their purpose. They weren't created to keep each other safe, weren't supposed to ever have that absurd desire, and Geralt knows precisely why. It only sits uselessly and painfully between them and makes things worse, keeps them worrying and thinking when they should be fighting for completely different reasons and other people.

His hand falls away from Eskel's back and he breathes deeply, focuses on letting the magic coiled inside him sink down again, his mind now clouded not only from the alcohol but also the small surge of chaos. He'd see clearer if it were daylight, if he hadn't gotten this drunk the previous evening, but he can't change anything, can't stop himself from slipping into brooding desperation at things they have been living with for decades and decades and will continue to live with until their dying day.

It would have been easier if it really were like the old stories say. No emotions for witchers, no fear, no memories, no want and need. They'd spill their blood in solitude as they are supposed to and maybe have some coin at the end of the day to keep them warm, and that'd be the end of it. Humans or a monster could kill them and they'd just blink out of existence, unmourned, unmissed. A life like this would be so much easier, and lying in bed watching his feeble magic fade away on Eskel's marred skin Geralt feels anger at the men that made them for making them imperfect, for allowing this.

He breathes into the darkness of the room listening to Eskel's heartbeat until the painful thing stirring inside him finally calms again. The traces of his useless magic and want have long since died away when he falls asleep, his chest against Eskel's back, face pressed into the nape of his neck, inhaling his scent and not letting go. Their shared body heat warms the furs tucked around them, Eskel's hair drying as the room cools slowly, the last embers in the grate having long since turned into a heap of grey ashes that cannot keep the winter cold at bay any longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Titel inspired by the Rainer Maria Rilke and the poem "Evening Love Song" ( [...] of those frail nights / we stretch out and which mingle / with these black horizontals.).


End file.
